On The Holy Mountain

Spiritual Adventures on Mount Athos

Mount Athos in Spring. Photo: M.Perry

Excerpt:

Now I know the mountain, but my first visit was an epiphany, following a real call to prayer for life itself, under life threatening circumstances in Afghanistan.

The ferry to the other shore was a slow, serene, sedate affair. Women and children were left behind. Black-robed monks ran rosary beads through their fingers and contemplated the steep rise of pine-clad foothills to the sharply jagged pinnacle of Athos. Peppered among the monks pilgrims flicked at mobile phones; 21st century met ancient tradition head-on. Although Athos is an extended peninsula of mainland Greece, the sensation was of cutting away, to an island far from the modern world.

The ‘Republic' of Athos is a self-governing ecclesiastical entity dedicated to prayer and the daily rhythms of the Orthodox Christian calendar. Fortuitously unplanned my arrival came at an auspicious time: the feast of the Transfiguration."Forgive me we have been busy today, so we are not fully prepared," said a kindly German monk at Koutloumousiou monastery. It was the first time I'd ever heard someone open a sentence with "forgive me." After prayers, we sat at long linen covered tables with silver edged plates and bountiful supplies of fish, pasta, fruit, water and wine. Chanting swirled, incense spilt and the seated congregation signed the cross to readings from the gospels in Greek.

A stay with the monks requires one to follow dignified dress codes and rules that include not smoking or using devices that play music. The only form of music officially allowed is Byzantine chant and the ringing bells that call to prayer. ringing bells that call to prayer. One is expected to get involved in daily life: "Participation in church services and the refectory should be dignified and quiet." One glorious evening I was fortunate to stumble across a musical performance. Golden light reflected from the Aegean sea filling the western room of Dionysius monastery. The melodious sound of a long low flute floated melodically over chanting bass and tenor voices. Along one side of the room, five Patriarchs (fathers of the church) sat on thrones. One wept. In the Orthodox Christian tradition sensitivity is exalted; he has as they say, "the gift of tears." A layman visitor beside me wept too. There are two reasons for tears: closeness to God and separation from him. One of the priests discerns I am English and shouts: "Beautiful! Celtico!" referring to similarities in sound with the Byzantine tradition. The sun turned from golden to red, and as it sank on the horizon, we were calmed by a drone behind the melody –the isotratima – the constant, a reference to the almighty.

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